


Epidemic

by AlexKingOfTheDamned, writerchick0214



Series: Shieldhawk Stuff and Things [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Kink Discovery, Light Masochism, M/M, Married Sex, Medical Kink, Sex in Uniform, bottom!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerchick0214/pseuds/writerchick0214
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve finds out that he gets hot in medical after winning a hard battle, and spends far too long trying to hide it from Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epidemic

It started some time ago. It started small. Steve thought he could ignore it.

 

It officially started after one hard, hard battle with some monstrosity that Hydra cranked out after being mostly silent for years. He’d gotten a harpoon through his gut, and his husband of almost one year to the day, Clint, coped in the way that he knew how – by cracking jokes. He was sitting right behind Steve in medical, helping to keep him propped while the doctors and a couple engineers figured out how to cut through the bulk of the cable so the harpoon could be pulled out of him.

 

“You look so hot like this,” he’d laughed, his voice strained. “My big strong sexy after-battle soldier husband.”

 

It shouldn’t have stuck with him. Clint was making a joke. That was almost eight months ago, but still after a hard battle to this very day as he’s getting shrapnel pulled out of his legs and chest, when his cuts are getting stitched up and his abrasions cleaned with alcohol, he imagines Clint there again, whispering in his ear, telling him how good he looks all sweaty and bloody after they’ve won. And just like that, blood will start pooling, and he has to hide his face because of the shame as he rises between his legs in full view of whatever hapless nurse is just trying to do her job.

 

It wasn’t so bad at first. But eight months into this secret reaction of his, and just sitting down in medical after winning a good fight starts to get him hot. This time he’s got a large amount of shrapnel from a close-range impact grenade embedded in his stomach and thighs. It’s relatively shallow, the most invasive anyone will need to get is with a pair of tweezers, but just the thought of the tiny jolts of pain that will shoot up his body are already sending him into trembles.

 

Clint is in a different part of the land base, getting a very minor burn tended to on his forearm from a blast radius that he should have been thirteen feet out of range from. But hey, if he hadn’t thrown his arm up in front of his eyes, he could be blind now as well as deaf. So the burn on his arm is a small price to pay.

 

So when he sees a particular nurse named Julia - who has been working with the Avengers closely ever since they really started working together as a cohesive unit – walking towards him, he wonders if maybe there’s something more wrong with him than he thought. She’s generally reserved for slightly more intense medical procedures, certainly nothing as simple as a first-degree burn.

 

“Barton,” she greets as she approaches him, one hand adjusting the tuft of brown hair she wears on her head in something that vaguely resembles a bun. She gestures at the other nurse to leave, and after one more little strip of medical tape to hold one end of the gauze to the other, the two of them are alone. “I need to talk to you about your husband.”

 

Clint freezes, sitting up straighter. "What's wrong?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

 

Julia sighs. “A few – well, all of the nurses who work on him are starting to get a little uncomfortable. Including myself. It’s especially bad that he’s a married man,” she indicates to the gleaming gold ring in the shape of an arrow curled around Clint’s finger. “Over the last several months he’s gotten aroused in medical during his physical after a battle. He’s expressed embarrassment over this and has asked me not to tell anyone, but I think after this long you should know.”

 

"He-what?" Clint's brows furrowing in confusion.

 

Clint feels fierce jealousy begin to churn, hot and uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach. Clenching his fists, Clint looks at clock above Julia's right shoulder, trying to even out his breathing.

 

“Like I said, the nurses are getting uncomfortable. You have a little bit of medical training, don’t you? From your days in the circus? It says on your file you know how to sling a broken bone and treat minor abrasions and burns. I’ll bet you’d know how to pull shrapnel out with tweezers, too,” Julia holds out a pair of tweezers and clicks them together.

 

"I do," Clint tells her, reaching for the tweezers. He's proud when he manages a tight smile.

 

Clint should be grateful that Julia hadn't come in to tell him Steve was more seriously hurt than originally thought, but all he feels is a little numb and a lot embarrassed. His husband was getting aroused while the nurses treated him. While they touched him. Clint thanks Julia and tells her he'll take care of it.

 

He doesn't move for a moment, thinking about how he should handle the situation. He knows Steve will be humiliated if he goes in there and says exactly what Julia had said, but Clint also wants to question his husband. In the end he decides to act nonchalant, and strides into the room with a cocky smile on his lips, twirling the tweezers between his fingers.

 

Steve is sitting at the edge of the cot, hunched over on himself. He looks up at the sound of the door opening, face pink, and makes eye contact with Clint. His eyes widen and he sits up straighter, pressing his thighs together.

 

“Hey, darling,” he greets, somewhat strained. “Um, what are you doing here?”

 

"I was told you needed some medical assistance." Clint lowers his voice, trying for sultry, and saunters up to Steve. "I have really talented hands."

 

Steve shivers a little, and presses his thighs closer together. “Um, you can’t – I mean, you aren’t one of the nurses.”

 

Clint pulls back to glare at Steve, all playfulness gone. "Yeah Steve," he grinds out, "I know I'm not one of the nurses. That's pretty obvious."

 

Steve’s cheeks are very, very pink at this point, and he’d think that Clint’s obvious annoyance would cause him to flag a little, but of course no such luck. He doesn’t want Clint to know that he gets so hot when being patched up.

 

“So then um, what are you – why are you here?”

 

Clint doesn't know what it is about Steve that makes it impossible to lie, but he feels irrational anger at it. "Julia asked me to patch you up."

 

Steve’s eyebrows lift. “Are you – did she – I mean what did she tell you?”

 

"She told me that you're making all the nurses uncomfortable," Clint says, backing up more, so he and Steve are no longer touching.

 

Steve groans and looks down at his feet. “She told you.”

 

"Yeah she told me." Clint winces when he realizes how loud he's gotten, and crosses his arms over his chest.

 

“I knew you’d be angry at me,” Steve sighs, and doesn’t mention that it’s technically Clint’s fault.

 

"No shit I'm angry!" Clint shouts and doesn't feel bad when Steve flinches away.

 

Steve shrinks back a little and he’s almost flagged now, but then the pain jolts up from his thighs and he almost whimpers with the pleasure that ripples through him. It’s so much more intense now that Clint is looking at him, even if he is angry.

 

“I – I can’t help it. I’m sorry,” Steve says shakily. “I just can’t stop myself from thinking… well, about that one time when you were in medical with me months ago… the Hydra weapon. You sounded – well, you made me feel really good despite the – the thing.”

 

Clint's eyes narrow in confusion, and he deflates a little, arms dropping to his sides. "Wait-what? I thought it was...well, I thought it was the nurses."

 

Steve’s head snaps up. “You thought I was attracted to the nurses?” he blurts.

 

"Well yeah," Clint says, biting a hangnail on his thumb. "You were getting turned on when they were touching you. What else was I supposed to think?"

 

“Darling,” Steve smiles a little sadly. It hurts to know that he thinks so lowly of himself that he thinks Steve would cheat. “I _married_ you, remember? I did that because I love you more than anyone else in the world. And because I think you’re sexier than anyone else in the world. That would never change because a couple nurses give me a – well, you know. Um, this,” he gestures to his lap, which is still mostly obscured by his tightly clenched thighs. “Besides, this only happens because of the things you said when you were trying to soothe me through that major injury.”

 

Clint looks down at his wedding band, embarrassed and ashamed, and rubs a thumb over the tiny arrow. He thinks back on their wedding day, the way Steve had cried, and is ashamed by the insecurities he still feels. Biting his lip, Clint walks back into Steve's space but leaves enough room between them so they're not touching. He opens and closes his mouth and reaches out to touch Steve, but pulls his hand back.

 

“If you’re here to – I mean, if you actually want to, ah, patch me up, there’s no way I’ll be able to control myself,” Steve closes the distance between them by tugging on Clint’s hips.

 

Clint leans in to kiss Steve, sighing against his husband's lips. "I'm sorry," he mumbles.

 

“Stop stressing,” Steve smoothes his hands down Clint’s forearms. He hooks his ankles around the backs of Clint’s knees with a smile. “I’ve got a lot of shrapnel that I need your help getting out.”

 

Clint shivers when Steve runs his gloved hands down his arms, the fabric smooth against his skin. "I'm not gonna be able to do anything if you keep touching me like that."

 

“Could you – ” Steve licks his lips. “Could you undress me?”

 

Clint steps back again, licking his lips and nodding his head. He's never had a medical kink, hates and fears the hospital too much, but he can't deny how hot Steve looks at the moment with his uniform stretching under the strain of his obvious erection and the blush high on his cheeks.

 

"Stand up," he says, motioning for Steve to do as he says.

 

Steve couldn’t obey fast enough. He’s on his feet so fast that his head spins, and the impact from the floor on the bottoms of his booted feet send jolts shooting up his lacerated legs. He gasps and presses a palm between his thighs for just a moment, trying to soothe the powerful pulse that just nested there.

 

Clint's breath catches in his throat when Steve palms his own dick and he can't help but lick his lips again. "Turn around for me."

 

Steve turns. He puts his palms on the edge of the cot and spreads his legs a little bit farther than necessary. He’s so hard he could get off by grinding against the edge of the cot, but the thought of Clint pulling the shrapnel out of his stomach and thighs is too good for him to blow it. He pushes his backside out just a little bit to emphasize the curve of it, and his toes creak as they curl in his boots.

 

“Like this?” he asks, even though he knows he’s done it right because he can hear Clint’s breathing escalate.

 

"Yeah," Clint says, voice barely above a whisper.

 

He steps up behind Steve, so close he can feel the other man's body heat without actually touching him. Clint takes a moment to admire the curves and hard lines of Steve's body, eyes roaming over the form the Captain American uniform does very little to hide. Slowly, surely, Clint reaches up to undo the outfit, peeling Steve out of it.

 

Pain jolts through Steve’s body as the tight suit is peeled away from his shallow wounds, and his hips cant against nothing but air on instinct alone. Head swimming, palms sweating, he lets out one of the most shameless moans of his life. He’s usually pretty well reserved during sex, giving Clint the smallest of groans or sometimes whispered words of praise, but this is so far off the deep end of what they’re used to that he can’t contain himself, and he kicks his head back with a whine as the thick material slides over the abrasions on his thighs.

 

Clint has to push up on his tip toes to do it, but he growls and latches his teeth onto the curve of Steve's neck, biting down harder than normal. He had planned on teasing Steve a little longer, but Steve was making the most delicious noises, sounds Clint had never heard his husband make before. Clint drops the uniform, leaving it pooled around Steve's knees, and wraps his arms around Steve's chest, tugging the taller man back against him.

 

“Ohgodohgodohgod,” Steve chants, grinding back against Clint’s groin and feeling weak in the knees. His hands creak on the edge of the cot and he pants open-mouthed.

 

"Fuck," Clint huffs against Steve's neck, biting and kissing a trail up to his ear. "You're so hot like this. Why didn't you tell me?"

 

Steve can only shiver and moan feebly in response. He flexes the muscles of his thighs to send the pain sparking up through him again, and throws his head back with another, louder moan.

 

“Plea-please, I need, I need you to get the shrapnel out, I need it now,” Steve pants, head reeling. This is quite possibly the most filthy, depraved thing he’s ever done in his life, and he’s already completely addicted. If he doesn’t get Clint’s hands on his body, cleaning his wounds and fixing his injuries right now, he might just drop dead from the tension.

 

Clint starts to tug on the buckles of his boots, and Steve shakes his head and sits at the edge. “No, just leave them, it’s too – god, I need it now.”

"Ok," Clint sooths, pulling a stool closer to the examination bed.

 

He sits in front of Steve, running his hands along the other man's calves. Steve urges him on, making a needy noise, and Clint rushes to grab the tweezers again.

 

He’s quite a vision. He managed to work his suit off over his boots, which was no small feat, and left the boots strapped firmly in place. He also left the gloves on because he knows how much Clint loves it. The only other piece of clothing left on his body is a rather bloody jockstrap that was white when he put it on that morning. The straps are firmly in place, curved over his ass, but they’re having a hard time of it due to the bloodstained cloth stretched taut over Steve’s ironhard erection.

 

“Clint, please,” he moans, his thighs trembling and his eyes fixed firmly on the tweezers.

 

Clint barely manages to keep his hands to himself, wanting nothing more than to stradle Steve. Instead, Clint pulls a metal tray closer, and aims the light onto Steve's thigh. He thinks he tells Steve to hold still, but can barely think as he leans in close, picking the first piece of metal out of Steve's skin.

 

Steve’s teeth clamp down on his lower lip, and he’s already halfway there. His head clunks back against the wall behind the cot, and his hips buck upwards in pursuit of the pain that slices through his gut and settles in his cock.

 

“Oh my god,” he moans, and spends only a moment thinking about how horrible it would have been if a nurse had needed to do this.

 

"Holy shit," Clint hisses, gripping the edge of the cot with his free hand.

 

Unable to keep his eyes off of Steve, Clint momentarily stops what he's doing. The hand holding the tweezers somehow makes its way to Steve's groin, and cup the other man through his jockstrap, squeezing the weight gently. Steve curses worse than Clint has ever heard him, and bucks up against Clint's hand.

 

“Not yet,” he pants, shaking his head. “If you do that I’ll- too soon- I’m gonna pass out, oh my god,” he kicks his head back against the wall and surges his hips towards Clint again to try and encourage him to pick out more shrapnel.

 

Clint tries to stop  but rubs Steve another few times before withdrawing his hand, going back to his task. The shrapnel comes out easily and Clint is fast, ignoring the sounds Steve is making. Under his hands, Steve is trembling, muscles taught, and whenever Clint tries to sooth his husband, Steve would just shake harder.

 

He’s babbling, he knows he is, but he can’t even pretend to be coherent enough to THINK about stopping. His hips buck up after every little scrap of shrapnel is pulled out of him, and his cock is straining so hard against the cloth of his jockstrap that he fears the elastic might just burst. Fists tighten around paper-thin sheets on the cot, and muscles tremble.

 

“Pleasepleaseplease,” he begs, what for he isn’t even sure, but he needs it, and he needs it now. “More, mo- I need m- ” he looks down, and the sight of Clint sitting hunched between his spread thighs, slick with rivulets of his own blood, sends him whining all over again. 

 

"Mother fucker," Clint swears, free hand moving of its own accord, settling on Steve's knee. The skin is slick with blood and the muscles are tight so Clint rubs a soothing thumb over Steve’s kneecap, picking out another piece of shrapnel. When Clint moves to start on Steve's stomach, his hand brushes against the stretched fabric of the jockstrap.

 

Poor Steve shouts, a single, feeble jet of pre-ejaculate wetting the front of the once-white cloth. He blacks out for a handful of seconds, and comes to gasping and rocking his hips upwards.

 

By far the most intense experience of his entire life. Even their wedding night didn’t feel this good, the pleasure wasn’t this intense, and Steve fears for a moment if he’ll ever be able to get off again without the counter twinge of pain to balance his pleasure, but his thoughts are scattered when a piece of shrapnel the size of his thumbnail is pulled out right beneath his ribs, the largest so far, and by far the most electrifying spike of pain.

 

“Fuck!” he shouts, in a way he’s done maybe twice in his life, and he suddenly hooks his ankles around the back of Clint’s knees again, pulling him in close for a messy kiss. Blood is probably staining the front of Clint’s uniform, but he can’t pull away now as he grinds with earnest against the rough kevlar.

 

Clint feels a franticness bubbling under the surface, moaning against Steve's mouth. His husband didn't lack passion, but even after so long together Clint noticed that Steve often held himself back when it came to sex.  At the moment, Clint can't get enough of how desperate Steve seemed.

 

"God," Clint breathes, sliding his hand up Steve's thigh to squeeze. "So fucking needy. So hot.”

 

“Keep- keep going, there’s more,” Steve’s breaths are coming in so short he’s almost hiccupping. His cheeks are so pink one might think he was wearing makeup, and his normally perfect hair is severely mussed. His body is wracked from nose to toes with a full-bodied shiver every few seconds, and he flexes his stomach tight to send the pain sparking through his nerve endings.

 

"Fuck," Clint says, "Hang on."

 

Clint runs his hands from Steve's neck to his knees, blunt nails scratching along Steve's pecs. He tries to watch Steve's face as much as he can, entranced by the pink of Steve's cheeks and how red his mouth is.

 

Steve _whimpers_.

 

His whole body arcs upwards in pursuit of the nails like a kitten, and his eyes slip closed as Clint’s nails catch over every groove and cut in his stomach. When the tweezers are lifted again, he clenches tight in the hopes that each little bit of metal will scratch just a little bit more on the way out.

 

"I'm almost done," Clint says softly, almost regretting it when Steve whines.

 

He slows down, picking the final pieces as slowly as possible, adding more pressure than necessary just to watch Steve twitch.

 

When the last little shard leaves him, Steve jolts after it, as if he’d rather keep it inside. But then he sags, and rolls his hips towards Clint.

 

He opens his eyes, his lips open in pursuit, and he pants up at Clint. His hips jerk a little, and he licks his lips. “I need you,” he says, his voice rough from shouting. “I need you inside me.”

 

It’s not a request he makes often. Partially because Clint loveslovesloves the feeling of Steve inside him, partially because Steve loveslovesloves being inside Clint. They’ve switched it up once or twice when the mood strikes, and right now the mood is striking hard.

 

He’s boneless but tight, trembling, and so out of his mind that his motor functions would fail him if he tried to take Clint like he usually does. And if Clint tried to ride him, he’d be done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

 

“I need you to _take care_ of me,” he pants, pulling Clint closer to him again with his heels around his knees.

 

"Yeah," Clint whispers, leaning into Steve's body. They kiss for a moment, Steve's hands wandering everywhere they could reach. Blindly, Clint begins searching for something, anything really, to use as lube. All he finds is a bottle of hand sanitizer and burn cream. Reluctantly, Clint pulls away from Steve, trying to move out of his reach.

 

“Oh god, don’t leave, why,” Steve babbles, arching after the heat of Clint’s body leaves him. He groans and curls his toes in his boots, and palms himself helplessly through the jockstrap still in place. Another small spurt of precome wets the front and he makes a noise of general disquiet in his impatience.

 

"I've gotta-shit!" Clint is knocking things over in his haste, hands tossing unwanted supplies into the sink. "We need lube, there's gotta be some in here."

 

“It’s a doctor’s office,” Steve pants. “They give prostate exams, and they don’t go in dry. It’s over there,” Steve gestures desperately to a box on a shelf with a picture of small bottles of lube on it in a grotesque shade of aqua. “Hurry before I pass out.”

 

Cling curses and jumps to his feet, simultaneously reaching for the lube and taking off his shirt one-handed. His head gets tangles as he tears open the box, already popping the cap open.

 

“Please, please, Clint,” Steve arches again to illustrate how needy he is, and he reaches forward with gloved hands to beckon the smaller man to him.

 

Clint finally gets his shirt off, and walks into the space between Steve's legs, instantly capturing Steve's lips in a kiss. One of Steve's legs wraps around Clint's waist and he reaches down, lifting the leg higher by the back of the knee. Clint manages to get some lube on his fingers, the consistancy different than the brand he and Steve normally used, and he rubs it a second to warm it up. Steve whines, so Clint reaches down to rub at Steve's puckered entrance, taking pleasure in the needy sounds Steve is making.

 

Steve finally pulls the cloth front of the jock strap aside so his cock can spring free, and the release of that tension is enough to send him shouting again. He bucks his hips down onto the fingers, trying to prompt them inside.

 

“Put your hand – free hand on my stomach, please, I need – ” he groans, trying to send a brighter flare of pain lighting up his nervous system.

 

Clint isn't sure if he answers Steve,  but he does raise his hand to press down on Steve's abdomen at the same time he presses two fingers into Steve's body. The reaction he gets in return will probably never leave his head, and he has to rut against the cot just for some friction. His uniform pants are too tight, too constricting, but he rubs himself against the cot so he doesn't have to take his hands off of Steve.

 

“Moremoremore,” Steve gasps, eyes rolling back into his head a little bit. “Clintpleasenow- now,”

 

Being the super soldier that he is, he requires a lot less prep than the ordinary man on his way towards anal sex. Not to mention, he’s already so loose and warm from Clint’s earlier ministrations and all of the delicious pain sparking through his body.

 

Clint tries to undo his uniform pants with one hand, but his fingers are slippery with the lube and he keeps fumbling. He swears, biting Steve's bottom lip between his teeth.

 

Steve shouts again, shoving a hand down between Clint’s legs to rip aside the buckle. It snaps off, but their suits collect a lot of wear-and-tear after every battle, and one little buckle to be sewn back on isn’t a big deal in the scheme of things, but if Clint doesn’t get inside him right now he might actually explode – so it’s worth it.

 

“Now,” he commands, arching down, his cock smearing moisture on the front of Clint’s uniform.

 

Clint moans when Steve basically rips him out of his pants, and slicks himself up as quickly as possible. Moving Steve is no easy task, but he manages to hike Steve to the edge of the cot so he’s even with where Clint stands. When he presses down on Steve's stomach, the younger man arches into it, leaning back on his elbows so Clint is able to get Steve's legs under his arms.

 

Thighs spread wide in invitation, Steve chews on his bottom lip during those few too-long seconds that Clint takes to get lined up.

 

“Ready?” Clint teases.

 

“If you don’t, I swear I’ll do it without you,” Steve threatens in a growl.

 

Clint digs his nails into the damaged skin of Steve's stomach, pushing in when Steve hisses and thrusts up. He cants his hips so he slides in easily, grunting when it bottoms out. It always surprises Clint how easily Steve opens up around him, how he fits perfectly.

 

Steve can’t even make a noise. He arches up, bears down, mouth open but no sound escapes. His breath is stuck in limbo, eyes hooded and rolled back, and his legs fold around Clint’s waist to pull him in tighter.

 

He’s still for just a second too long, and Steve finds enough breath for him to lift his head and demand, “Move!”

 

Clint doesn't need to be told twice; bracing himself on the edge of the cot, Clint pulls out as much as Steve will let him, and thrusts back in harder than he normally would. Every time he tops he's overly gentle even though he knows there's no need, but this time he is anything but.

 

Steve’s breath is lost again. He collapses from where he’d been propped up on his elbows, fists gripping the sheets so tight that threads begin to pop apart. The cot shakes with Clint’s thrusts, banging against the wall in a way he knows is unmistakable, but he can’t even bring himself to feel shame now.

 

“Yesyesyes,” he chants when he remembers how to breathe again. His voice is fucked rough, and his shredded stomach heaves with his gasps and moans.

 

Clint wraps his arms around Steve's thighs, pulling Steve back against his forward thrusts. He's sweating now, body already trembling slighting in exertion, biceps taught with the effort it takes to push and pull all of Steve's dead weight. He's moaning loudly, mostly Steve's name and the occasional curse. The hair in his eyes is momentarily distracting, but he manages to flick it away from his face.

 

“Scratch me,” Steve orders, he needs those nails raking down his body again.

 

Clint's nails are short but he does as he's asked, placing his hand close to Steve's throat, raking them down his entire torso until he reached Steve's stomach. He paused, catching Steve's eye with a smirk, and then continues on until he can wrap his hand around Steve's cock.

 

“Closecloseclose,” Steve pants as the pain flickers like a live wire down his body, almost sending visual curls of light through his limbs. His body is covered from end to end with goose bumps, and red welts are raising where Clint scratched him. “Again,” he demands. “One hand.” He definitely doesn’t want Clint’s hand to stop just yet.

 

With his free hand, Clint scratches his way down Steve's body again, catching a nipple on the way back up. He's thrusting wildly now, rhythm almost nonexistent, but Steve doesn't seem to mind.

 

"You're so fucking hot like this," Clint admits, surprising himself. "So desperate for me. Shit."

 

“Harder!” Steve shouts, and whether he’s talking about the scratching or the thrusting he’s not even sure, he just wants everything more, faster, now. He’s so close he could cry.

 

Clint is quick to please Steve, pushing his body to its limits. He snarls and pulls Steve up enough to kiss him, putting a hand at the small of Steve's back. The younger man pushes back against the hand and Clint takes the hint, scratching up Steve's back. The slightly curled position puts pressure on Steve's wound and Clint almost comes when Steve shouts into the kiss.

 

The soldier curls his hands around his bursting cock, and in less than two strokes, he’s done.

 

He arches backwards like a bow, striping his chest thickly with his ejaculate, his hips jerking unapologetically down to meet Clint’s thrusts as he rides him through the most intense orgasm of his life.

 

He maybe called out Clint’s name, but it was likely just one big scream. He’s never been one much for screaming, and his ears are ringing so loudly he can’t even hear it, but his throat feels raw and his mouth is open, so he’s being some kind of loud.

 

Clint only manages a handful of thrusts after that, throwing his head back with a moan. He suddenly doesn't know what to do with his hands so they settle on Steve's hips, holding their bodies close. Clint slumps forward, forehead thumping against Steve's shoulder, and he almost panics when he's unable to catch his breath.

 

Steve’s legs are still wrapped around Clint’s waist, holding him in place, and his numb fingers lift from gripping the sheets. He crosses his arms over Clint’s back and heaves as he tries to catch his breath.

 

“Wow,” he breathes after a long moment spent just breathing together.

 

Clint can't help but laugh, feeling a little like he wasn't in his own body. Pushing Steve's hair away from his face, Clint leans down to kiss his husband, arms shaking as he holds himself up.

 

"Wow is right," Clint says, and he doesn't even care if its cheesy.

 

“You realize what this means, don’t you?” Steve asks as he prompts Clint to slide out of him, and then beckons him up onto the cot.

 

“Mh?” Clint hums as he drapes himself over Steve.

 

“This means I’ll never be able to get my minor wounds patched up by anyone else,” Steve laughs. “We thought it was a problem before, now it’s an epidemic.”


End file.
